


When a good man goes to war

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Could end in Major Character Death, I'll put that in the notes if it does, It's a case, M/M, Not sure where this story is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are hunting down a mysterious serial killer who keeps leaving notes. I say it's Doctor Who- really it's just kinda references to Doctor Who</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night will fall

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where this story will end up. It's fun but difficult to write, so future chapters may take a while to post.

John shook open the morning paper, standing in the kitchen while breakfast sizzled on the stove. His eyes scanned the headlines. Nothing unusual- a mildly famous person did drugs, a football team won a game, another team lost, and politicians blamed other politicians. Just another average day.  
He heard a floorboard creak and turned around to see Sherlock standing watching him. John smiled across at him and the detective acknowledged him with a small nod. He was already dressed in his usual suit and purple shirt, ready for his next case.   
"Breakfast is nearly ready," John said, as Sherlock sat down and opened up his laptop.   
"Are you planning on eating today?"  
"Yes, actually. Nothing's come up on the website. I know that the body is just transport for the mind, but every car needs refueling."  
Hamish walked into the room, acknowledging his parents with a small nod as he filled a bowl with cereal.   
"Morning, sleepyhead!" said John across the room. Hamish smiled.  
"Morning, dad."   
He began to walk out of the room, looking back as he opened the door.  
"Oh, Dad? The permission form for the school trip-?"  
"I left it on top of your schoolbag."  
"Thanks," he smiled. "Morning, Father," he called to Sherlock. He didn't take his eyes from the screen, scanning the news websites for anything that might interest him. Apparently he didn't find what he was looking for- he closed the lid with a snap and walked over to John's abandoned newspaper. He picked it up, reading the headlines with disdain.  
"Nothing!" he spat, but at that moment a small scrap of paper fluttered from the newspaper and fell to the floor. Sherlock stooped to pick it up. It was a page from a notebook that had been folded into a square, and written on it were two letters.  
SH.  
"What was that?" asked the boy, his sharp eyes spotting the note instantly.   
"It's nothing. Now go on, or you'll be late."  
Hamish frowned, but did as he was asked. John sighed.  
"He's so like you. The teachers are going to love him, correcting them all the time."  
Sherlock ignored him, instead opening the note and reading the sentence inside. He handed it to John in silence.  
"Night will fall and drown the sun when a good man goes to war," John read aloud. He looked across at Sherlock, confused.   
"What does it mean?"  
Before Sherlock had time to speak, there was a knock at the door.  
"Lestrade," said Sherlock even before he had walked in. John didn't even bother asking him how he knew. The inspector's face was flushed slightly and he looked worried. Sherlock's eyes lit up.  
"Murder?"  
Lestrade nodded, too out of breath to speak- he had sprinted up the street to find them.  
"Excellent. Where?"  
"Down by... Thames..." Lestrade gasped. "Will you come?"  
"Oh, try and stop me," Sherlock replied. "John, breakfast can wait. We're going out."

The police car pulled up near the bank of the river with a screech of brakes. Several other cars were there already, and there were about half a dozen officers on the scene. Seargent Donovan was one of them, but strangely she didn't seem to bat an eyelid when Sherlock got out of the car. Her face was pale and drawn, and John wondered what could possibly have scared her that much. Sherlock didn't seem to take any notice of this, already eager to see the body. He knelt beside the corpse and John felt his throat clench as he watched. A child, just Hamish's age. Too young. Far too young.  
The detective, who seemed not to notice John's discomfort, began his examination with brisk efficiency.  
"He's about ten years old. Time of death about 10pm. Looks like he died of asphyxiation, but not drowning. Not enough water in- aha!"  
"What? What is it?" Lestrade's voice was urgent.  
"See these marks around his neck? They were made by a rope. Someone strangled him until he passed out, then threw him in until the river finished him off." He stopped and began to fish through the boy's pockets. John turned to Lestrade.   
"Have you got an ID on the body?"  
"Yes. That's the problem."  
"Why? Who is it?"  
Sherlock gave a triumphant shout and hurried over to join the two of them.  
"It's the chief superintendant's son."  
John's mouth dropped open, and he turned to Sherlock. The detective's eyes were gleaming and he nodded slowly at John's next words.  
"Night will fall and drown the sun. Or the son?"  
"Here we are... And the son is dead. With this in his pocket."  
Sherlock handed John a slip of paper, slightly damp from leftover river water. John took it and read it out to an assembled crown of police officers.   
"Friendship dies and true love lies, night will fall and the dark will rise when a good man goes to war."  
Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade.  
"Serial killer."  
The policeman's eyes widened.   
"Are you sure? How do you know?"  
"This was delivered to Baker Street this morning," said Sherlock, holding out the note. Lestrade took it with uncertain fingers. His eyes skimmed over the surface of the paper, taking in the writing. He looked up.   
"Who delivered it? Did you see his face?"  
"It was tucked inside our morning paper."  
"What?"  
"Serial killers tend not to use the postal service."  
Lestrade nodded automatically, then paused.  
"Wait- if you've got two of the notes, then surely you can find a connection? Get an ID on the killer?"  
Sherlock nodded. "But I will need time."  
"We don't have any time! You said 'serial killer', but we've only found one victim. That means you think he's going to kill again. We need to prevent that!"  
Sherlock stared at him, but didn't speak. He looked back at the note he had in his hand, comparing it with the first one, then opened the door of the police car and swung himself in. John and Lestrade shared a look, then climbed in after him. Best not to argue.

"The same paper, the same sheet in fact."  
They were back at Scotland Yard, looking for clues- or at least, Sherlock ws looking for clues while John and Lestrade watched.   
"It was cut using slightly blunt scissors- see here where the edges are torn instead of sliced?- and judging by the size it was probably an A4 sheet cut into three, so I suppose that means there's a third note."  
"Meaning at least one more victim," supplied John.  
"Exactly."  
"What? Do you mean another person has already died?" asked Lestrade.  
"No! Don't be stupid!" Sherlock was typically impatient, wishing as always that the policeman would keep up but only succeeding in aggravating Lestrade further. The older man looked about three seconds away from punching Sherlock, and John hurriedly stepped between them.  
"Listen, Sherlock, why don't you explain it to us? Think you can bear to come down to the level of us mere mortals?"  
Sherlock turned around, frowning, but after a moment his expression softened slightly.  
"He won't kill again, not immediately. He's a serial killer, and he's gone to a lot of trouble over this. His crimes are carefully orchestrated, the notes planted in advance. This is a performace, John. He's got to build up to the final act."  
"And what is the final act?"  
"The final note."


	2. When friendship dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three may be a while, I prepared the first two ages ago. Stick with it :)

John walked and peered around the door for about the twentieth time, then resumed his pacing. After his grand pronouncement of the "final act" Sherlock had banished John and Lestrade from the room so that he could continue his deductions in peace. The policeman had hurried off elsewhere almost two hours previously, and John was getting a tad fed up. He glanced down at his watch, then swore and ran over to the door.  
"Sherlock? Listen, I've got to go."  
"What?"   
The detective's voice was sharp and irritable as he looked up, frustrated at being distracted from his investigation.   
"I've got to go," repeated John. "Hamish comes out of school in about fifteen minutes, nobody's at home to meet him."  
"Can't Mrs Hudson-?"  
"At her sister's."  
Sherlock's face softened into a small smile.  
"Of course. See you later."

Sherlock? -JW  
Sherlock, it's important. -JW  
Busy. -SH  
It's about our son. It may relate to the case, and besides, he wants to see you. -JW  
Sherlock, please come home. -JW

Oh, sod this. I'm bringing him in. -JW

Hamish's eyes were wide and alight with curiosity, staring around at everything they passed. He turned to John, grinning with wonder.  
"So this is where Father works?"  
"Yes," replied John with a smile. He was about to say more, but then he stopped and grinned instead. Hamish followed his gaze.  
"Hi, Father!" he called, running over to him. Sherlock greeted him with a smile and ruffled his hair. John gave a small grin. Sherlock had been a parent for over six years now, and it still surprised John at how loving the self-proclaimed sociopath really was. Sherlock knelt down beside his son, looking him in the eye.  
"Dad said there was something you wanted to tell me?"  
Hamish's face fell, and John felt his stomach twist slightly as he remembered just what had brought him here.  
"It's my friend Lily," mumbled the small boy.  
"What happened?"  
"She wasn't at school. We thought she wasn't feeling well, but the teacher went out of the classroom all worried and when she got back she had phoned Lily's parents and Lily wasn't there."  
"Did she tell you this?"  
"No, but I saw. Her hair was messy from the phone, and she was still worried. Kept glancing down the register and at the class like she was making sure that Lily definitely wasn't there."  
The boy's deductive skills were dsveloping remarkably quickly, noted John. Definitely a Holmes. Sherlock pulled Hamish into a hug, glancing up at John over his shoulder.   
"What do you think?" he mouthed.  
"Kidnap? Run away?"   
"Maybe."  
Breaking off the silent conversation, Sherlock got carefully to his feet.  
"Hamish, I'm working on an important case right now. Why don't you and Dad have a seat over here and I'll meet you in just a minute, okay?"  
Hamish nodded, scampering over to the seat Sherlock had indicated. John went to follow him, but Sherlock caught his hand and pulled him back.  
"How do you think this relates to the case?"  
"Well, the last victim was a child of Hamish's age. Now another one has gone missing. There might be a connection. Anyway, your son needs- OUR son, needs you. He's scared, and he's worried. You need to be there for him."  
Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, then closed his eyes and nodded. John swayed slightly on his feet as he instinctively leaned in to kiss him, but pulled back. Sherlock didn't like displays of affection. The detective squeezed his hand.  
"I'll be five minutes," he promised.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was tidying away his evidence. He may not be the best of parents, but he was determined to keep his promises. His hand knocked against one of the evidence bags, tipping the contents off the edge of the table. He stooped to pick it up, re-reading the note for the tenth time.  
"Friendship dies and true love lies," he murmured. His piercing blue eyes widened as realisation hit him. Scrambling to his feet, he sprinted to find John and Hamish.

"Do you seriously think that-?"  
"It fits. And think about it- the Superintendant's son, then our son's best friend. It's like the killer wants us to find him."  
"Why would he want to be caught?"  
"Oh, John. We've discussed this before. Psychopaths need recognition."  
John sighed, glancing over at Hamish who was sitting happily immersed in a new book.  
"I swear to you, Sherlock, if this goes wrong-!"  
"It won't. I won't let that happen. But I need your help."  
"Anything."  
"Take Hamish home. I called Mrs Hudson, she's home now. Find out as much as you can about Lily, but take care not to scare him. And when you're sure he's safe, come back here. I can find her. I will. I have to."  
John stared at him, then turned to Hamish.  
"Come on," he said. "It's time to go home. I'll buy you an ice cream on the way."


End file.
